The Viking's Captive(7)

He grunted. “Fuck! Stop that, woman.”

Smack.

She yelped as pain bloomed over her ass. “Let me go!”

Her struggling was to no avail, but she kept it up. She found the strength to raise her head again, from her upturned position. “Esca!”

He was in battle with a huge monster of a man wielding a sword. Her friend—potential husband—was dwarfed by his bearded assailant, but was putting up a brave fight. He swung his axe to the right, then the left, narrowly missing the arm of the other man.

She cried out, fear of what was about to happen gripping her. He couldn’t die, not sweet Esca. He didn’t deserve to, least of all at the hands of these brutes.

“I will kill you for this,” she shouted, fury mixing with her fear. “All of you.”

“Shut up. And stop your fucking wriggling.”

Her heartbeat tripped and stuttered; Esca was on the ground. She didn’t see where he’d been struck, but he’d fallen like a rock tumbling down a cliff side. She wanted to go to him, defend him, hold him while he took his last breaths.

Esca’s attacker appeared, satisfied Esca was no longer a threat, stepped over him, and approached two farmers wielding pitchforks.

She heard her father’s voice again, shouting for her, crying out.

Her heart felt as if it were being ripped in two. Esca was dead, she was sure of it. She’d never see her father again. Her life was over.

Heat from the burning buildings faded as her Viking abductor strolled from the village. His accomplices were close behind.

Much as she’d hated the crackle of flames destroying thatch, and the fearful cries of her friends and neighbors, the deep voices speaking in unfamiliar dialect were more terrifying. Where were they taking her? Were they all going to rape her, take it in turns to find their pleasure with the virgin they’d kidnapped, then murder her, brutally and slowly?

The horror of what was in her future was like an actual, physical pain. Plus she was dizzy, with being upside down. The sickness was back, and she was cold too, the wind catching them as they traversed through the cliff pass.

Don’t give up. Don’t let this be the end. I’m worth more than this.

From somewhere she found the energy and she wriggled and fought, trying desperately to release the iron-like arms that gripped her. This was the fight of her life. It may well be the last fight of her life.

“You have a wild one there, Halvor,” the Viking behind her said.

“Aye, the wench won’t stop wriggling.”

Smack.

She yelped. He’d slapped her ass again!

“Ha, that’s it, teach her a lesson,” the brute behind her chuckled.

She raised her head and glared at him. It was the monster who’d attacked Esca. “You can speak my tongue,” she snarled. “So understand me when I say leave me be.”

“We can speak your tongue, aye, makes it easier to tell our slaves what to do.” He laughed, an evil guffaw that filled her with dread.

“I’m not your slave and I never will be.”

“No, but I have a feeling you now belong to Halvor. You’ll be his slave until the day you die.”

“I will not.” Halvor. Now she knew the name of the marauder marching away with her. Now she had a name for the man from her dreams. But what difference did that make? The thought of being his slave until the day she died turned the blood in her veins to ice.

The sand dunes flashed by in her peripheral vision, as did long skinny blades of grass that cut shins like razors if care wasn’t taken when walking through them in the summer.

The Nordic savages, in their boots, trudged ahead. She tried to listen for other women, but could hear none. Was she the only female taken from her village? Were the others dead?

Halvor came to a stop. He clasped her waist, stooped, and set her bare feet on the ground.

As she straightened, a wave of dizziness came over her. She staggered to the right, her feet sinking in the sand and her arms flailing.

“Steady there.” He gripped her elbow, his big fingers wrapping around her mid-arm and tugging her so she stayed standing.

Black dots swarmed over her vision. The noise of the ocean dwindled. A strange floaty feeling gripped her brain.

“Hey, stand up.” He took hold of her other arm. “You’re unharmed.”

It was true, she was, apart from a smarting ass and bruised ribs, that was.

“Where are you taking me?” she managed.

“To our homeland, Celtic wench.” The Viking at Halvor’s side had spoken again.

She glared at him, hate filling her soul. What he’d done to poor sweet Esca was unforgiveable. A sob grew in her throat, but she beat it down. She’d never see her dear friend again. Now there was no need to further contemplate his marriage proposal.

“Celtic wench.” Halvor released her left elbow and cupped her chin. He tilted her head so she was forced to look at him, then pulled off his helmet.

Again she studied the markings on his face. Swirling dark ink partly covered by his long strands of hair, which were whipping over his brow and temples in the wind.

“I haven’t had a Celtic wench before.”

She twisted from him. “And you’re not having me now.”

To her surprise she managed to spin from his grip. She didn’t pause to enjoy her success. Instead she burst into a sprint. The sand hindered her progress, but she forged forward, toward the cliffs. She knew this land well, like the back of her hand. If only she could get away, she’d find a place to hide.